One Of Those Moments
by PippinStrange
Summary: When Bilbo used to be my fave hobbit, I wrote alot about him. I decided to return to my old calling and type this little one up. As you can see by the title, it is a very simple sixtysecond occurence in the life of Bilbo. Humorous, pointless oneshot. R


**One of those moments…**

**By Pippin Baggins**

**I have always had a soft spot in my heart for Bilbo. I'd nearly forgotten him, really. He was my very first favorite hobbit, and I'd spent time writing humorous sketches about him. It's time for me to return to my old calling—portrayals of Bilbo at different times during his life, random little stories of something that happened. I hope you enjoy as much I did back in the day. Try to imagine Ian Holm narrating it. It really does the trick.**

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'Heavens,' the hobbit muttered, looking at the disarray. 

Having all the cousins over—_all_ of them, mind you—had guaranteed certain chaos for his comfortable home in Bag End Under the Hill, but he hadn't guessed so much. Hobbit holes were cluttered, of course, but in a very comfortable sort of way. This was certainly not comfortable, in fact, it was quite unfathomable. Why, hadn't most of them been in their tweens? Certainly they weren't _this_ messy!

But they had come and gone, bringing gifts for Bilbo their host, and accepting his offer of cake and tea graciously, sang a few songs—and my my, perhaps knocked over a table with a bit of dancing—they were definitely not _bad_ hobbits.

The more Bilbo looked on the halls in despair, the more he realized he had quite overreacted. The table was soon set to rights, the dishes placed in the basin to soak, and the gifts piled near the bedchamber entrance soon gave the hole a very pleasing look.

It even looked more comfy as cluttered as it was.

And here was one of the culprits for clutter! One of the younger folk had left a pair of shoes—right in the middle of the floor!

But, that was to be expected! No one _else_ wore shoes, but some unfortunate hobbit-child had—(presumably)—a flighty and easily-worried mother, who made the laddie some shoes, and forced him to wear them during the cold seasons, despite the teases and jokes made by the playmates. Poor lad, singled out among his companions. How humiliating.

Aha, Bilbo was guessing now—he guessed it to be the young Abram Brandybuck. His mother always made him wear a scarf around his throat—even in September!—fearing he would catch cold. The nerve of some hobbits!

Bilbo shook his head, and plodded on, surveying damage. (Not that there was any). He halted by the large gilded mirror, admiring his fine clothes. Ever since his little incident last year, he'd done quite well for himself, with the wealth from the dragons horde, and all. And he was aging gracefully! Yes, very gracefully! He looked like any hobbit half his own age. It was a splendid thought.

Bilbo frowned. He tugged at his coat pocket, feeling the inside. Something clicked against his nail, and the heaviness confirmed the presence of his most prized possession—stolen goods. Or, at least one stolen good. A ring. A ring of all rings! For this little ring turned one invisible, and no one knew it but he. Gandalf guessed it, though he never told anyone, so he didn't count.

Bilbo resumed his going-over in the mirror. "Yes, Bilbo Baggins, a mighty fine burglar are you! Indeed! The finest in the Shire!" he stopped and examined what appeared to be a wrinkle on his left cheek. No worries, it was just the lighting.

"Nay, Bilbo lad, you're just as young and snappy as them little ones you had over!" he smiled, then stopped.

"Moreover, you ought to look older, a little unnatural, I should say." Then he changed his mind and stuck out his chest. "On the contrary! Not unnatural—just terribly lucky! I have had the most luck."

"Ever since I found that ring, it has been luck," Bilbo continued. "Or, stole it, likely as not."

"No!" chided Bilbo. "I did not steal it."

"But I knew it belonged to Gollum," Bilbo contradicted.

"He was going to murder me!" added Bilbo.

"And you are a common thief that ought to be hung!" concluded Bilbo.

"Oh dash it all!" snapped Bilbo. "Stop that!" he hurled a round fist at his reflection. The brown knuckles crashed against the glass, and he leapt back, startled from his reverie.

"Oh, dear me," he muttered, sucking at his red fingers. "There I go again. Bilbo Baggins, you old Fool! You ought to stop talking to your self! It gives you naught but sore fingers and bad feelings, when you ought to be cleaning your horrendous messes in your home. Go along with ya!"

Bilbo hurriedly obeyed, and skittering away—picking up wrappers and wiping foot-marks—he occasionally fingered his pocket with a queer look gleaming in his eyes.

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